


The Time Stiles Gets Possessed (by a demon named Bob)

by eldee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Demon!Stiles, Demonic Possession, Exorcisms, Fusion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OC demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:30:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldee/pseuds/eldee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is walking through the woods when the demon takes him.</p>
<p>His mind is reeling with distracting thoughts of a stupid alpha werewolf and their kisses, and he doesn't know what hits him when there's black smoke swirling all around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Time Stiles Gets Possessed (by a demon named Bob)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the various demon!Stiles gif sets and fanart all over tumblr. This is a Supernatural fusion but you do not have to be familiar with SPN canon for it to make sense, and no SPN characters will appear. However, this is a Teen Wolf fic, and those who do know SPN will notice there are some differences as I was trying to fit this into the Teen Wolf verse.
> 
> **Thanks!** to fuzzytomato (asocialfauxpas) for holding my hand through this, and then reading it over for me.  <3! Thanks to leashy_bebes as well!

Stiles is walking through the woods when the demon takes him.

His mind is reeling with distracting thoughts, as it always is; this time of a stupid Alpha werewolf and a kiss and of being pushed away with a simple and not at all fulfilling explanation of _we can't_. It's not the first time. It's not even the second. They've been dancing this dance for a couple years now, but recently it's felt … _different_ , especially with those couple brief kisses that have gone exactly nowhere. Stiles is becoming frustrated, but mostly he just _wants_. 

It leaves him open and vulnerable, and he doesn't know what hits him when there's black smoke swirling all around him. It coaxes his mouth open, and he chokes on dark air as he falls to his knees on the leaf-covered ground of the woods. He's powerless to stop it.

Just as he's powerless over his own body as soon as it overtakes him.

He tries to stand up, to scream or run or fight back. It's too late. His body stays where it is, and when his eyes open, the world looks a dull grey but everything is perfectly visible. With a blink, it's normal again but Stiles doesn't understand why.

Stiles feels a force rifling through his mind, his memories, gleaning away everything there is to know about him. He tries to push back, keep it out, but he doesn't really know what's going on and it blows right by him until it's gathered up everything it wants.

"Oh, yes," he hears himself say -- only it's _not_ him, he's not saying anything. It's whatever _it_ is. A vision of Scott and Allison pops up in his mind, and then ones of Derek, his dad, Deaton, and then the rest of the pack. If Stiles' heart was his own at the moment, it'd be pounding away a million miles a minute. Instead, it feels like a jolt of twisted pleasure is coursing through him.

"Oh yes, indeed," it says. "You're exactly what I need."

Stiles lets out a wordless scream, and then a force pushes him back into darkness. He struggles against it, but he can't escape and everything is black.

 

**

 

When Stiles comes to again, he's staring at himself in the bathroom mirror of his own home. He's smiling as if he's posing for a school picture, wide and goofy and just so him, as if there's nothing wrong.

"Oh, hey there," his reflection says. "Woke up, did you?"

Stiles can't speak, but he can think, and he directs his thoughts into, _Who are you?_ What _are you?_

"Oh, come on now, you know that."

Stiles does know that. He finds the answer in their head when he looks for it: demon.

"Yep," the demon says. He blinks and then the vision is that grey-muted colour again, though everything looks so sharp and clear, as if it's better this way. In the mirror, Stiles' eyes are black, completely black. No pupil, no colour, no life to them at all. Only Stiles' smile makes him look like something alive.

"I'm Bob."

_Bob? Seriously?_ Stiles doesn't know that much about demons, but he's pretty sure their origins go back a lot further than a Bob.

"Well, Robert, but I prefer Bob," Bob says, and he blinks back to normal Stiles again. "If there can be a Bill the Vampire, why can't there be a Bob the Demon?"

_Oh, god, now there's vampires?_

"Oh, come on," Bob says as he rolls his eyes. "Surely a boy like you with such interesting friends knows to keep up on supernatural pop culture. Know what's real and what's not."

Stiles really couldn't give a crap about that right now. He goes on alert at the mention of his friends; his body would've tensed up, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and on guard.

But Bob is relaxed, still smiling and completely at ease. "Oh, yes, I know all about your friends. Why do you think I picked you? And now I know even more."

Stiles rages. In his mind, he flails and pushes, tries to get back control, blinded by worry. It doesn't help. He figures out that it actually makes it worse; there's laughter, the sound filling the bathroom that seems so much like Stiles when he's drunk and giddy, but it's actually Bob. He's feeding off it, and he loves it.

"Oh, Stiles," Bob says, "this is going to be fun. We'll have a good time, you and I."

 

**

 

Bob is fucking terrifying.

Stiles learns this very quickly. 

At first, Bob spends a little bit of time poking at the bestiary on Stiles' computer, making interested noises and clearly pleased at what he's learning. Then he Googles Dr. Deaton's address -- not the vet clinic, but his home address. Stiles isn't sure how the demon figured out how to get it, it's supposed to be unlisted, but he's tech savvy and ferrets it out. It's pretty damn creepy. Bob chuckles, low and slimy, when Stiles shoots that thought his way.

Obviously, Bob is after something Deaton has, that much Stiles is able to figure out. But whenever Stiles tries poking around to find out what, or why, he comes up against a brick wall. Well, more like a brick box, a cube that's keeping that little piece of information locked away from him. He tests it, tries to push at it with his mind, but it's solid and he can't get through.

"Stiles," Bob says, annoyed. "Cut that out."

Stiles doesn't. It's not like he has anything else to do, and even though he doesn't know what he'd do with the info -- it's not like he knows how to get it to anyone -- it makes him feel better to try. Besides, trying to muck his way through the rest of Bob's foggy, dark mind feels like hellfire and death and he instinctively knows, to keep his own sanity, not to mess with it. Instead, he focuses on Bob's task at hand, the reason he possessed Stiles in the first place: to get close to Deaton.

"Stiles," Bob says, and pushes back when Stiles prods again. But he can't get Stiles into the dark; Stiles has more control now, and he's determined.

And then they hear the front door open and Stiles' dad calls out, "I'm home!"

Bob smiles and Stiles feels like he's going to wilt from sickness.

It's worse when Bob brings up an image of -- of Stiles' dad, beat up and hurt and bleeding and --

Stiles loses it, the protective rage filling him again. And then it's blackness after Bob pushes him away.

 

**

 

Waking up to Bob's creepy eyes is becoming Stiles' least favourite thing in the world. They're driving along in the Jeep, and Bob glances in the rear-view mirror, eyes solid black and cunning. "Morning, sunshine. Now don't you fuss," Bob says as Stiles starts to get restless, "dear old pop is fine. Can't have my plans ruined by having you caught for killing the town's sheriff, now can I?"

Stiles does more than fuss. He curses and swears and threatens, but Bob just drives along with a smile on his face. It's only when Stiles stops for a metaphorical breath that Bob says, voice laden with threat, "Now, you behave, or when I'm done I _will_ go back and take care of him. Just for you."

The vision of his dad pops up again, only worse this time, and Stiles recoils, vibrating with worry and fear.

"There we go," Bob says as Stiles forces himself to settle. He pulls into Deaton's drive and parks the Jeep. "Now, this whole thing is pretty time sensitive, so let's get a move on, yes?"

Bob gets out of the Jeep and goes up to the front door. It's a perfectly good disguise, Stiles realises; Stiles has been going to Deaton for advice on supernatural-type things for a couple of years now. Or rather it usually about how he, a human, can deal with it, though it's usually on a need-to-know basis. Deaton's cryptic like that. And while Stiles always goes by the clinic, there still isn't anything all that suspicious about this.

"And that's why you're perfect," Bob mutters, and rings the doorbell again. Deaton doesn't come to answer. "Ah, well," Bob says. "I can find what I need without him. Lucky for you, your doc will probably come out of this alive because he isn't here."

Lucky for the doc, Stiles thinks, but is relieved.

That relief is short lived, though. Bob goes around the back, and has the strength to break the back door lock -- but can't get in. He gets very angry.

"Fucking Mountain Ash," Bob growls, voice crueller than Stiles has yet heard. Stiles can't see it, but Bob can't get in and so it's hidden somewhere that keeps him out, like in the floorboards or something. He looks around for a way into the house, but he's prevented everywhere, and he's seething by the time he hops back into the Jeep.

"All right, then," Bob says. "To the clinic we go."

On the drive over, Bob calms himself down by imagining all the things he could do to Deaton to pay him back for the Mountain Ash, and he's practically a bundle of rainbows and cookies by the time they park again.

Stiles, on the other hand, wishes he could throw up a million times and then bleach out his own brain.

"Scott!" Bob greets when he walks through the front door, the little bell ringing above it. There isn't a problem with mountain ash here; so many werewolves come and go that Deaton leaves the waiting area open to them.

At seeing Scott, Stiles gets restless again. He tries hard to reach out to Scott, get him to realise this isn't _him_ , this isn't Stiles, not really. Stiles is deep down inside.

Stiles recoils again when Bob shows Stiles just how he'd deal with Scott, if he really wanted to, the very way he would deal with killing any werewolf. Stiles shudders his mind at the image.

Scott is at the front counter and he looks up with a huge smile on his face. It quickly disappears after he takes in deep breath, and then he's concerned.

"Stiles! What's wrong? You smell--"

"Wrong?" Bob suggests. "Sick? Do I smell sick, because man, I kinda feel sick."

"Like death is coming," Scott says, confused.

Bob laughs. "Hey, man, don't get too crazy." He holds his arms out wide in a perfect Stiles gesture. "Clearly doing okay here, dude. Well, mostly. That's why I came by, though. Is the doc here?"

"Stiles, what did you do?" Scott says, looking less concerned and more fond, like he believes Stiles messed something up. Stiles can't even be offended by that because, hey, it's been known to happen.

Bob splays his hands out and makes a sheepish face. "Maybe messed up this little spell thing he told me about? I'm not puking slugs so at least that's something?"

Scott laughs and shakes his head. "Only you, Stiles. But, yeah, Dr. Deaton is out of town but he said he'd be back in the morning."

"You think he'll come straight to work or go home first?"

Scott raises an eyebrow. Which is fair, because it's a weird question, so Stiles hopes it raises a red flag. Come on, Scott, notice something is wrong.

Bob raises his hands defensively. "Hey, I may not be puking up slugs, but my burps kinda taste like them. It's gross, dude, I just need to see him."

Scott smiles, and Stiles' metaphorical heart sinks. Damn, Bob is good.

"Probably here, first," Scott admits. "He's kind of a workaholic. But, hey, are you going to be okay? Should we take you to the hospital? Or, I could call my mom--"

"No," Bob says harshly, and Scott's mouth snaps shut. Bob smiles to cover up his agitation. "Sorry, just, you know. Probably not the best thing to go to the hospital with. How am I supposed to explain it? So, there was this magic powder stuff that I accidently spilled and inhaled and then sneezed out a bunch of blue snot--"

"Ew, really?" Scott says, nose wrinkling.

"No, not really," Bob says, rolling his eyes. "But you get what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. You'll be okay, though?"

"Sure, I'll last till morning."

"Call me if you get worse, okay?"

Bob smiles. "Sure thing, buddy. I should let you get back to work," he adds, and with that, he's heading out the door with a wave over his shoulder.

_Stellar performance_ , Stiles can't help but think.

_I'm good at what I do,_ Bob thinks back, because speaking might be overheard by Scott. With that thought, he adds, _Fucking werewolves_. He's not pleased with running into Scott at all.

And then Stiles gets why Bob is on a time crunch, picks it up from his obvious disdain. It's too risky being around the weres, they might be able to sense something's up. Scott almost did, if Bob hadn't come up with a pretty good cover. Stiles tries not to get too excited by the thought, because the last thing he needs is a grumpy demon on his hands.

 

**

 

It doesn't help that Derek is lurking around the Stilinski yard when Bob pulls the Jeep in.

_Oh, what now?_ Bob thinks when he sees Derek, and Stiles can feel the internal scowl Bob makes, as if he's using his whole mind to stick his tongue out at Derek or something. At the same time, Stiles' heart practically sings with unbridled hope that Derek will sense something, anything. That he'll be able to tell this isn't Stiles, not completely anyway.

Bob internally smirks at Stiles. _Don't get too excited, buddy. I got this._

The thing is ... after getting to know Bob by being stuck in his head, Stiles believes that, he really does. It sucks.

Bob gets out of the Jeep and shoves his hands in his pockets, playing it reserved. "Uh, hey, man. So, before you say anything--"

"You're sick," Derek says, taking in a deep whiff, nodding his head as if he believes it now. "Scott texted me."

"Of course he did," Bob says dryly, rolling his eyes. "I'm fine. I'm just gonna go chill or whatever."

"What did you do?" Derek asks. "Is this about earlier?"

"Earlier?" Bob asks, and Stiles can feel him shuffle through Stiles' most recent memories, landing on exactly the right one; it had happened only minutes before Bob took Stiles. Bob laughs a perfect self-deprecating laugh. "Oh, you mean when I kissed you -- a really good kiss, I might add -- and you rejected me? _Again_? What do you think I did, Derek? Try to make a love potion that went wrong?"

Derek's face is a mask though he doesn't deny it. Bob tells Stiles, _You should totally do that. It's your only chance with this guy_. And Stiles wants to stab Bob through his shrivelled up soulless heart.

Bob rolls his eyes. "Get over yourself, big guy. I'm fine. I got it. No means no. Can you just go away so I can move on with my dateless life?" _Seriously, Stiles, a twink like you with your pretty little face? You're kind of a loser. Get on that, eh?_

_Shut up, Bob,_ Stiles growls at him.

Derek says seriously, "Stiles, that's why I'm here."

"Oh, good. You can tell me no some more," Bob says sarcastically. "As fabulous as that experience would be, I think I'll pass. Now, if you carry on your little wolfy way, I'll just go inside now and try not to die. That's a joke by the way, I'm fine, but seriously, _leave_."

Stiles can tell Bob is just trying to get rid of Derek, to keep his cover and using Stiles' hurt feelings as a defense. It's not a bad one, but one thing that Bob doesn't get is that if Derek wanted to show up on Stiles' doorstep to talk about _them_ ... well, Stiles would not send him away, not for any reason in the world. He'd be all over that.

Hopefully Derek gets that too; he's not letting Bob brush by him to go into the house. He's got a frown on his face when Bob tries, and he reaches out to take Bob's arm. At least, Stiles hopes that Derek gets it's _not_ Stiles.

"Stiles," Derek says, gripping a little tighter when Bob tries to jerk his arm away. Stiles is afraid for a moment that Bob will use his demon strength to just rip away from Derek, or maybe shove his hand through Derek's chest and grab his beating heart or something to pay Derek back for even the thought of touching him.

Stiles freezes from the fear of it. Bob senses these thoughts; it feels like he agrees for a moment, that yes, yes that's exactly what he wants to do. But there's a faint echo ringing through their minds -- _alpha, pack_ \-- and Bob reins himself in, instead glaring at Derek's hand and then glancing up at him.

Bob asks flatly, "What do you want, Derek?"

Derek doesn't say anything. He just leans in and presses his lips to Bob's ( _Stiles'_ ) mouth.

_Me_ , Stiles thinks, awestruck. _He wants me._ Stiles tries to pour out everything he can, what he thinks and feels and please, Derek, god please just pick something up on it. He tries to kiss back, because he wants that, but he's immobile, his own limbs deadweight and out of his control.

Bob doesn't react to Derek. Doesn't move and doesn't reciprocate, and Derek pulls back with a frown. Bob takes his arm back and says quietly, "No means no. That was your decision."

Derek nods and lets Bob move away to walk right past him without another look, and closes the house door behind him.

_You're better off, kid,_ Bob thinks as Stiles' hope begins to crack. _Fucking werewolves._

Stiles disagrees. He just tries to focus on the fact that Derek had come here to talk and he _kissed_ Stiles (or who he thought was Stiles) first for a change. But thinking such things annoys Bob, and he starts bringing up devastating pictures of what he could do to Derek, if he wanted, so Stiles lets it settle down.

He tries to build a box of his own around these good feelings. He thinks he's got it locked up pretty tight and he's not going to let it go, and he holds onto it for strength and helps him keep control. Like an anchor.

 

**

 

For something so full of soulless evil, Bob is surprisingly patient. Stiles expected him to be going nuts, crawling out of his skin, maybe going off and finding some people to torture and maim for fun and pass the time. Or, at the very least, Stiles thought Bob's mind would be a restless whirl as he waits for morning to come and he can go track down Deaton again. Instead, he sits on the couch in the Stilinski living room, completely still and focused while he watches episode after episode of a vampire show with a dude named Bill and laughs every time his name is mentioned. It's ridiculous but Stiles can do nothing else but watch along.

He's tired, though, from trying to keep up with Bob. Stiles can feel his own mind floating like a hazy cloud, almost sleeping but with it enough that he's not fading out into the black yet. He wants to know what's going on around him and he doesn't want to be lost, but he needs to rest or he'll never make it through this.

Stiles becomes more alert when his father comes down from where he was resting in his room, dressed in full uniform. Bob doesn't do anything though, doesn't even bring up vicious pictures of what he could do to Stiles' dad. Bob just waves from his spot and says good night as Stiles' dad leaves and goes into work. Maybe it's a sense of false security, but for now, Stiles is okay with that and lets his mind doze again.

He's woken up when he feels Bob go tense and alert.

_Fucking werewolves_ , Bob says, scowling at the window. _What's he doing here?_

It takes Stiles a moment to figure out what's going on. Bob senses Derek out there lurking around in Stiles' yard again, but not coming inside. Not climbing to Stiles' bedroom window and sneaking in, or even knocking at the front door, as he'd surely be able to tell Stiles' dad isn't home right now.

Bob is getting angry again, mind working out a plan to get rid of Derek if he has to. Stiles shudders at a vision that pops up.

_Settle down_ , Stiles snaps at him. _He's just ... being him._

_A creepy stalker?_

_Pretty much_ , Stiles answers. _He thinks I'm sick, right? He's just making sure I'm okay. If you make a fuss, he's going to actually come check._

Stiles wishes more than anything that'd happen, that maybe Derek will get a freaking clue that's it's not a sickness; at the same time, he doesn't want Derek anywhere near Bob. At this point, it's a lose-lose situation.

Bob seems to believe Stiles though, knows that Stiles is speaking the truth. He settles down more, even stretches out on the couch with a pillow and blanket, as if he's really just resting from a sickness in front of the tv.

_Does he do this a lot?_ Bob asks. _Just stand out there acting like a guard dog and not even coming in to tap this?_ Bob slaps Stiles' ass.

Stiles internally rolls his eyes. _More often than I'd like_.

Bob snorts and thinks, _You two are fucking pathetic_. There's little echoes in his mind about how he could possibly make it worse, just for kicks. But, really, Stiles is good enough at doing that on his own and he tells Bob. Bob laughs, and thankfully turns his attention from Stiles' inactive love life and watches more of his show. Stiles doesn't really understand it, but it seems to be one of the few things on this earth Bob gets a kick out of. Other than torturing and messing around with humans, anyway, but Stiles is deliberately ignoring that part of Bob's mind.

The rest of the night is uneventful, and Derek must've left at some point because Bob doesn't mention it again. Stiles wakes up from the black he must've slipped into as the morning light starts to seep in through the living room curtains. Bob is awake -- Stiles doesn't know if he ever slept or even needs to give this human body he commandeered that kind of rest -- and he's starting to get excited again, knowing he's going to be seeing Deaton soon. Stiles half-heartedly pushes at the box where Bob's secret is, but that only riles Bob up more. Bob is ready for getting whatever it is he wants, is viciously happy about it. He whistles under his breath as he moves through the Stilinski house, finding a sheathed knife and tucking it into the waistband of Stiles' jeans at the small of his back.

Then Bob goes to the clinic.

Deaton's car is at the back, so Bob goes around to the front and parks the Jeep.

Bob smiles and goes inside.

Stiles has no choice but to go along for the ride.

 

**

 

For a night that passed by so uneventfully, the morning showdown Stiles is anticipating goes by very quickly, and not nearly as smoothly as Bob would've liked.

Bob goes into the clinic with a smile and Dr. Deaton is standing at the front counter reading over some paperwork, half turned away from them and engrossed in what he's doing. The bell over the door isn't working and Bob has to cough to get his attention, and when Dr. Deaton glances up and smiles, Stiles can see that it isn't the warm one he's come to adopt with Stiles. It's polite, distant, as if he doesn't know Stiles at all. Stiles doesn't think that Bob notices the difference.

"Hey, Dr. Deaton," Bob says happily, just as Stiles would if he saw the doc, not picking up on his thoughts. "I've been looking for you."

Deaton stands up straight, clasping his hands behind his back in a relaxed manner. "So I've heard."

"Oh, yeah, Scott tell you?" Bob asks. He thumps his fist against his chest, as if trying to force out a cough. "Haven't been feeling so well, thought maybe you could help me figure out what I did." He wiggles a couple fingers. "Magic stuff."

"I think we both know that's not true. You're looking for something very rare," Deaton says, face neutral but strong gaze meeting Bob's. He knows, Stiles realises just as Bob does. Deaton _knows_ and he isn't beating around the bush at all. He adds, "And I can't give it to you."

It all happens in a fast fury; next Bob knows, Derek's in through the door and reaching for him, so very fast, as if he's ready to grab Bob by the scruff of the neck. In his peripheral vision, Bob sees Scott jump out from where he'd been hiding in the back room, wolfed-out.

But Bob is quick too, moving quicker than Stiles ever could. He spins away from Derek, grabbing the knife out of the sheath at the small of his back, and while he's got himself into the corner of the waiting area, he can see everyone now.

And everyone can see how he has the knife pointed right at Stiles' ribs, the tip pressing in and ready to slice at a moment's thrust.

They all freeze in spot, as if time has stopped, no one moving or even breathing. Even Stiles feels like he's holding his breath, and he can't even do that right now.

"Well, well, then," Bob says, "looks as if my cover isn't as good as I thought it was. I don't see what good it is to try and keep it." He presses the knife just a little and Derek, who's also shifted into his wolf form, growls and takes a step forward.

"Derek, no," Deaton says just as Bob presses a little more, ripping Stiles' shirt and scraping his skin. Derek stops moving, but both he and Scott growl lowly. Stiles can tell there's a little scratch, just a tiny bit of blood welling up though it isn't at all bad, but it's threat enough against Stiles' body and the wolves are not happy with it.

Deaton says, "I've explained it to you." He's talking to Scott and Derek, Stiles can tell. Stiles wants to know exactly what he explained, because he still feels a little out of the loop with what's going on with his own body and mind, how the two are separated, but if he can get it back together he wants to know how.

"That's the thing about working with wild animals, isn't it, Doc?" Bob says. "Impulsive and out of control." He blinks and suddenly everything looks grey, but so sharp and clear.

Both Derek and Scott growl loudly, and Stiles knows what they're seeing: solid black eyes and a sly smile that Stiles doesn't even know how he could replicate and it's his own freaking face.

They're seeing a real glimpse of Bob.

Bob lolls his head to the side, looking at Deaton again. "Call of the guard dog, or I swear, I will stab this kid right through the heart."

Derek growls and crouches in a ready-to-spring position, but Deaton stops him before he moves.

"Derek," Deaton says, "you need to get back here."

Scott is standing right at Deaton's shoulder, glowering at Bob.

"Yeah, Derek," Bob taunts, "you need to get your werewolfy ass away from this demon or your little boytoy is going to get stuck right in the gut. I assume Deaton's told you what happens if I kill Stiles, right? Oh, right, he'll be _dead_."

Derek speaks. "How do I know he's not dead already?"

"Oh, honey," Bob says with a fake smile. "Believe me, your senses would know if this was just a walking corpse. That's why your kind is so damn annoying. He's still in here, and he's alive and kicking, but if you do not back the fuck off _right now_ ," Bob says, voice changing to a near shout before taking a deep breath and continuing on pleasantly, "then that will _change_. And you know that I'll be able to keep his body animated even if he did die. It would be a shame to kill him, though, he's so entertaining to share headspace with."

"Derek," Scott says, nearly pleading and showing his weakness for Stiles. "Come on, please."

This actually gets Derek moving. In one bound, he's over the little divider and taking up a place at Deaton's other side. His red eyes are glowing and he's staring at Bob.

"Well, that's better," Bob says, appearing more relaxed now. He waves the knife through the air lazily. "Although, this isn't going down as I had hoped. All in a day's work, I suppose. Now, let's get to business. You know why I'm here."

"I don't have it," Deaton says.

"Don't lie to me," Bob says simply. "We know. We know it was placed in your possession for protection."

"That's correct," Deaton says, "except I found out two days ago that your kind became aware of that. Why do you think I've been out of town?"

"Getting it far away from here, I take it?" Bob wagers. "How convenient."

"It's the truth," Deaton says. "I have no reason to lie, especially not when you have a friend of mine hostage."

"This boy?" Bob says, with a laugh. "You would give him over to the cause in a heartbeat, and we both know it."

"Not so."

"Oh?" Bob asks, and he pokes at Stiles' ribs with his knife. Both Scott and Derek flinch forward. Bob just tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. "Important, is he?"

"Not in the way you're thinking," Deaton says. "He has nothing to do with your plans, and he doesn't fight for either side. He's an innocent bystander."

Bob shrugs. "Well, he's important enough to you and your little pack of dogs so I know I have a bargaining chip here. Tell me where you took it and I'll return him safely to you."

"You're a demon," Scott says. "Why should we believe you?"

"That doesn't automatically make me a liar," Bob tells him. "I can tell the truth to get what I want. And your boss here knows what I want and where it is. Besides," he says, and taps the knife over Stiles' heart, "can't you tell when I'm lying?"

"Don't trust the body," Deaton says, unconcerned that Bob is listening to this advice. "It's tainted."

"I know," Scott says, wrinkling his nose. "I can smell it."

"You don't know what you smell, Scott," Bob says. "You had no clue that it wasn't Stiles you were talking to yesterday, and don't pretend otherwise. You're adorable but not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, now are you?"

"He knew," Derek says suddenly, glaring at Bob. "He knew something was wrong, and he told me, and then I knew. And now we will stop you."

"Oh, you didn't know, not for certain," Bob says, unconcerned. "At least, not until you kissed him." Scott makes a surprised noise and Bob laughs. "Oh Scott, pumpkin, you don't know, do you? How badly Stiles wants him, how much he wants to bone him _all the time_. Unfortunately it's one of the occupational hazards of possessing someone so young, you know? Completely horny little bastard in here. But don't worry, Scott, it's not like anything is going to happen. Derek doesn't think Stiles is good enough for him. Will never think Stiles is good enough for him, so Stiles will just follow him around like _he's_ the little puppy dog, doing whatever research is needed, or saving the day, all for the little scrap of praise that'll never come and half-assed kisses that mean nothing. Pathetic, really."

Bob's words storm right through the little storage box of good feelings Stiles was keeping, and it crumbles away so easily, like a straw house in the wind. Stiles is powerless against Bob's words and taunts, weakened by them in a way Stiles tried but couldn't do to Bob. He used that tactic against Stiles and it shoots like an arrow right through his chest.

The thing is … the thing is Stiles knows what Bob is saying is true. He's seen deep into Stiles and knows exactly what to use to get what he wants while causing chaos in his wake. Stiles is disgusted, and embarrassed, but there's nothing he can do about it. He's powerless.

"Don't believe a word he says, Stiles," Derek says suddenly, as if knowing that was exactly what Stiles was thinking. "He's just trying to mess with all of us and no one should fall for it."

Stiles -- while not believing Derek, exactly -- calms a little bit. It's message enough, that Derek is trying to make sure he doesn't worry, doesn't fall for Bob's tricks. Stiles knows there must be a plan, that after Derek had figured out about Bob last night he waited for Deaton to learn how to defeat a demon. It's so obvious. Stiles isn't afraid, but he just wants it over and there's no way he can help this time.

"Oh, poppet," Bob says, and taps his temple with two fingers. "You're so certain they'll save you, aren't you? They don't have a frigging clue what I'm capable of." To the others, he says, "You're stalling, boys, and took too long. Offer's off the table."

With one quick swipe, Bob slashes the knife through the air, and then there's gash in Stiles' thigh. Bob doesn't even glance down, so Stiles doesn't get to see it. But Stiles knows; Stiles knows it's deep enough to bleed. He sees the way Scott and Derek's nostrils flare, the way they bare their teeth and growl.

Bob presses the knife to Stiles' stomach, pointed upwards to get up and under the rib cage. "Now," he says calmly, "fucking tell me where it is or he's dead."

"Phoenix," Dr. Deaton says immediately, his hands held up defensively.

"Where in Phoenix?" Bob asks.

"With a man named Doyle."

"Oh, _that_ Doyle?"

Deaton nods. "Yes, that one."

"Well, that was easy," Bob says, and he drops the knife down to his side. "Did you see how easy that was? All you had to do was tell me, and he would've been fine. But, oh _no_ , you all had to play big and tough and now Stiles is hurt." He glances down and sees the black blood seeping into Stiles' jeans. He says, "I think this poor boy's body needs some gauze."

"Scott," Dr. Deaton says, not looking away from Bob, "get what he asked for."

"No funny business, Scott," Bob says, and tightens his grip on the knife.

Scott backs up to the shelf, not looking away from Bob, and grabs some bandaging. He tosses it over to Bob, who catches it and begins to deftly wrap up Stiles' leg.

"Well, that'll just have to do for the drive to Phoenix, won't it?" Bob says as he stands up and starts to back toward the door, not turning away from the others.

"Wait," Scott says, "you said you would let him go!"

"I said if you told me, I would return him safely, but I had to harm him for you to tell me so that negates the entire deal," Bob points out. "I'm taking him with me, just to make sure Deaton here was telling the truth. A bit of collateral, yes? Besides, I like Stiles. He's so much stronger than you all give him credit for, including himself, and he has no idea how fun it is for me to play with his head. Most people just break down the second I have their minds, but not Stiles. Oh, the things I have to show him to get him to shut up. Priceless." Bob smiles widely. "I'm sure you all understand. Quite the chatty one, isn't he?"

"You won't get far," Derek says, his fists balled up tight. Stiles is surprised he's not gashing into his own hand with those long, pointed claws of his. He's clearly barely refraining from jumping over and grabbing Bob by the throat.

Bob laughs loudly, and Scott winces at how much like Stiles it really sounds.

"I _will_ get away with this," Bob says. "You can't stop me. You know who won't get away with it? Stiles. I mean, he and I are going to have some _fun_ on the way to Phoenix. Robberies, hijackings, the whole works. Manhunt for the son of Beacon Hills illustrious Sheriff. Man, I love when I get to visit topside. So much havoc to ensue." Bob salutes the other three. "But, with that, I really must go. Now, you stay away and give us our head start, or Stiles will be dead before you can say 'werewolves are mindless puppy dogs', got it?"

No one moves as he gets to the door, and he kicks behind himself to open it with his foot. "Tootles, all!"

And with that, Bob very quickly walks out of the clinic ... and right into a circle of mountain ash.

"Oh, shiiii--" Bob turns around and sees Deaton right there, as if he'd been only an inch or two behind Bob, and he's closing off the circle.

"How?" Bob says angrily, and Stiles feels his mind immediately go to Derek, who followed him inside the clinic. "The wolf can't touch --"

"Hi," a female voice calls out. From the other side of Stiles' Jeep, which is right beside the circle, Allison pops up -- and shoots Bob with a stun gun.

Stiles' body convulses as the two ends stick through his shirts and into his chest, the electric current pulsing through him. Bob falls to the ground, knife slipping from his hand. It only last for a few seconds, and Stiles himself doesn't feel the pain, but he knows that Bob does. He can feel it echoing through him, and it makes Stiles feel like he's sick; it's gotta hurt like hell, and this is his body that's being electrocuted here.

Finally it stops, and Bob has the energy to pull the wires away from him. He looks up to where Allison has rounded the back of the Jeep but has come to stand at the top of the circle of mountain ash. She kicks away the knife that has fallen outside of it.

"Risky move," Bob says. He spits, and the cement of the parking lot is splattered with black blood.

"My daughter has good moves." Bob glances over and Chris Argent is standing right there, gun pointed right at Bob -- no, Stiles' -- head.

"Hunters," Bob spats out. "More annoying than werewolves."

"Get out of him," Derek says angrily.

Bob glances around. The circle of mountain ash is surrounded now by two hunters, two werewolves, and one magical veterinarian.

_Not looking good for you, Bob_ , Stiles can't help but taunt.

Bob doesn't even have time to push back at Stiles, because he starts twitching as Chris starts speaking some different language. He's reading from a book he pulled out of his pocket. Stiles has no idea what language it is but Bob certainly does because it's affecting him, suddenly and painfully.

Stiles can feel Bob's hold on him loosen and Stiles wants to join in to help defeat this demon. He uses his mind to push from the opposite way of Chris' words, and it's like Bob's being squished into the middle and is starting to be shoved out of Stiles' mouth.

Stiles is distracted for a moment, though. The box that holds Bob's secret -- his plans, or an image of whatever the hell it is he's looking for, Stiles still doesn't know -- is starting to weaken. The walls are shaking, getting thinner, and Stiles can't help but poke at it some more. It's only fair, really, after Bob completely destroyed his.

_You really want to see?_ Bob manages to gasp.

The walls fall.

Stiles isn't sure _what_ he sees; it's a blinding light a million times hotter than the sun, and more painful than a thousand needles being shoved into his body. There's screaming, so much screaming, and it fills Stiles' head and his body until he can't help but scream along with it.

And then Bob retreats.

Stiles' screams fill the outdoor air of the parking lot, his head thrown back and proper colour returning to the world. He's seeing with his own eyes, screaming from his own lungs. He flails his arms, because he can, because they're _his_ arms, and he has control.

He's him again.

When he finally stops yelling, he slumps forward onto the cement, forehead smearing through some black blood. He tries to reach out with his hand, for someone, anyone, but it hurts when he gets too close to the ash. Bob's still inside him.

"Stiles," he hears Scott say urgently. Scott's restless, wanting to be in the circle to get to Stiles but he can't pass the ash. "Stiles, is that you, is it gone, are you--"

"It's still in me," Stiles manages to gasp, though it comes out wet and thick. He spits onto the ground, and it splatters red blood. Red human blood. His blood.

Everyone stares at it.

Stiles struggles to get up onto his knees and looks Chris Argent right in the eyes. It's the best bet, because no one else could do it. He wouldn't want to make anyone else in this circle do it.

"Kill me," he says to Chris. "It's in me, I can feel it--" Stiles can, Bob's rattling around in the back of his mind and Stiles is trying to keep him there but he doesn't really know how, and he hurts all over "--and you can't let it out, you can't let it -- oh, god, what it's planning to do, you can't let it happen, _you can't_."

"What, Stiles?" Chris urges. "What's its plan?"

Stiles shakes his head. There are no words for it. Instead, he says, "It's ok. Do it."

"You can't," Scott says immediately. "Don't be an idiot, Stiles, no one is going to kill you. We'll get it out, we will."

"What is it, Stiles?" Chris says again, ignoring everyone else but him. "You have to tell us."

"I don't -- it doesn't make sense --" Stiles manages to choke out "--it's horrible, so much fire and pain and you can't, you can't let it -- it's looking for--"

Allison raises her crossbow to point right at Stiles' head. "No," Derek says, making a move toward her. Deaton throws an arm across his chest to stop him.

Stiles knows she's being threatening like this because Stiles is seeing the world in grey again; or, rather, Bob is back, flashing his black eyes, and she knows Stiles doesn't have control anymore. He hears Derek growl in frustration when he realises it too.

Stiles hopes Chris will listen to him. If that's what works, it needs to be done. It's better than the confusion of what's now in his head becoming a reality, a hell on earth.

"Yeah, Chris, do it," Bob taunts, agreeing with Stiles.

And that -- that isn't right either. There's no way Bob would want himself to be killed, not even if it takes Stiles down too. Bob's evil, but he's not a kamikaze kind of evil, Stiles is pretty sure. He's more on the selfish, self-preservation kind of evil. Well, shit. Stiles' martyr plan is going to backfire in the worst way.

"No," Deaton say firmly. "Killing Stiles will not kill it too. It'll be able to move on. Stick to the plan. Get it out of him."

Chris nods, and begins to read again. Bob twitches and starts to howl, and he curses up a storm, saying all sorts of horrible things; about Allison and Scott, the failure Argents are as hunters, Derek and his family, and Deaton being a manipulative bastard. To keep Stiles at bay and weaken him, he shows Stiles horrible images of what he could do to his friends and allies that are standing right there.

It makes Stiles push harder.

Chris doesn't stop chanting, and Allison joins in too. Stiles can feel Bob grow weaker and weaker, and then he's gagging like he's about to throw up.

Finally, he throws back his head and smoke billows out of Stiles' body, exactly the reverse of how it entered him. It slinks over his body and down to the ground, disappearing into it. Stiles can feel when it's all gone, and the world is exactly as it was meant to look, meant to be. 

And Stiles is himself again, has his own mind back.

"Thank you," Stiles croaks, and then he crumbles to the ground, slipping away into the black once again.

 

**

 

When Stiles wakes up, it doesn't feel nearly as awful and confusing as the last few times he has. It's quiet and peaceful in his mind, solitary, and he wakes up in a pleasant haze.

"Oh, hey there," a lovely voice says to him, and it sounds so different than the last time he heard those words. It's not Bob, and relief floods through Stiles.

Stiles opens his eyes fully and blinks, clearing his vision, and he sees Scott's mom smiling at him. He's at the hospital.

"Hi," he tries to say, but it comes out voiceless and he coughs to clear his throat.

"Hey, don't worry," Mrs. McCall says easily. She holds up a little plastic cup with a straw. "Try some of this. Just little sips."

Stiles manages to swallow some water and says more clearly, "What happened?"

He knows what happened, or at least a vague idea that, once Bob had left the building, Stiles needed some medical attention. But what he knows, and what the hospital -- and probably his dad by now -- knows could be two completely different things.

"Been feeling sick a couple days, huh?" Mrs. McCall says, and Stiles nods. That's an understatement. "Seems you had a fainting spell and fell over, knocked an entire bookshelf onto yourself, and also broke some glass. Got yourself a nasty cut there from it, but we stitched you up."

"How many?"

"A very manly ten," she says, smiling. Her face morphs into something softer, more concerned. "You're very dehydrated, and that cut isn't helping your health. We have you hooked up to an IV and we're going to keep you for the night for observation, make sure you're all ship-shape before we send you home, okay?"

"Okay," he says. "Am I on drugs?"

"Some mild ones to help with the pain."

He nods. That makes sense; he knew there had to be a reason why he wasn't freaking out more about that whole demon possession thing he just survived. He feels tired, his body heavy, but it's his own and that's all that matters.

He turns his head to the side, looking out the door. "My dad?"

"Standing on guard for a couple hours, so of course the five minutes you wake up he's gone to get a cup of coffee." She pats his knee lightly. "I'll go find him, okay?"

"Thanks," Stiles says.

She pauses at the door and turns to face him. "Stiles," she says seriously, "did you have anything else to add?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," she starts slowly, as if trying to figure out how to say it. "Scott and Dr. Deaton brought you in. They said you stopped by to visit Scott on his break, and it happened at the vet clinic."

She pauses, as if waiting for him to filling in a missing blank. Stiles knows she _knows_ things, but he's not entirely sure what Scott has filled her in on. Stiles doesn't want to break whatever little bubble Scott tries to keep her in about this kind of stuff.

"I guess so. I don't really remember."

She doesn't look convinced but she doesn't push it. She gives him a small smile, and goes to find his dad. Stiles lets out a shaky breath and he manages to keep himself awake long enough for his father to come in, put his hands on his hips, and shake his head. It's all an act, though; Stiles can see how concerned he really is. He hates he does this to his father so often, one way or another.

Stiles dozes in and out for a while, his father a solid presence before Stiles shoos him away to go eat some real dinner. He probably only agrees to go because it turns out that Scott is hovering at the door. Dr. Deaton is with him too. Stiles' dad gives them some space, only after thanking them for helping out his son, and the door is closed behind him.

"I'm glad you're okay," Scott says immediately, once they're alone.

"Stiles, I am so sorry," Dr. Deaton says, "that you got hurt in all this."

Scott mutters under his breath, "Stupid knife." They probably hadn't been expected Bob to threaten his host quite like that.

Deaton adds, "You never should've been involved in it."

Stiles looks at him steadily. "But I was. Why me? Because I was an easy target?"

"Perhaps," Deaton says. "They can't take over werewolves, and I have protection that prevents possession--"

"I want that," Stiles interrupts. "Whatever it is, I want it. That can't -- I never want that to happen again."

Deaton is nodding before Stiles has even finished. "I figured you would. I'll arrange it for as soon as you're out of here, all right?"

"Okay," Stiles says. He doesn't even know what it is he has to do -- it could be jumping through hoops on fire over a pool full of sharks and he'd do it. If it meant that he wouldn't have Bob or any other demons back in his mind again, he'd do it.

"Do you remember anything?" Scott asks gently.

"Everything," Stiles says. It's easy, too easy, to bring up memories of their shared time and the images that Bob threw at him. Except for one thing. "Well, not what his plans are. Like, the thing at the end?" Stiles closes his eyes and tries to bring it up, but it's nothing but senseless fire and pain, too disorganised to make heads or tails of it.

"Okay, Stiles, it's okay," Scott says. Stiles realises that Scott has taken his hand, and that it's shaking. Scott folds his other one over it, trying to calm him. "Don't worry about it. Don't think about it."

Easier said than done, Scott. Stiles takes his hand back and folds them both in his lap.

"They know now," Stiles says, looking at Deaton. "Whatever it is they're looking for, that they need -- they know where it is. It's not like Bob--"

"Bob?" Scott asks, confused.

"The demon," Stiles clarifies. "Yeah, I don't know either. But he isn't dead, is he?"

"No," Deaton answers. "He's been sent back to where he came from."

"Well, my guess is he'll get out again, or tell others like him, or whatever. It is all my fault."

"It's not your fault, Stiles," Deaton says.

"Yes, it is. If he hadn't taken me hostage like that, if I hadn't let myself get hurt just so you would talk, he wouldn't know." Stiles flops back onto his pillow. "I might not really know what it is, but believe me, I know it's bad. Big, and bad, and I did not help at all."

Scott says forcefully, "None of that is _your_ fault!"

"And they don't know. Phoenix was a decoy, and my friend there is ready for them to come for it." Deaton frowns, looking at Stiles' leg. "I'm sorry you got hurt in our plans, though."

"All of it was just to get you free of its control," Scott says. "At least that worked."

"At least that did," Stiles agrees, taking a deep breath. He's tired again -- it's exhausting thinking about Bob -- and he just wants to sleep. Maybe it'll help him forget, but he doubts it.

"We should let you rest," Scott says as he looks at Stiles with concern. "We'll talk about this later, okay?"

"Sure," Stiles says, even though he doesn't want to. He fist bumps with Scott but his eyes are closed before they even leave the room.

Stiles is surprised that even Allison and Mr. Argent come by to check on him later that evening. It's very brief, but Allison carefully squeezes his shoulder. Chris nods firmly, like he approves of Stiles or something.

"You're very brave," he says.

Stiles snorts. "I'm very stupid." He sighs. "I didn't know what to do, or what you guys could do to kill it or get rid of it or whatever."

"If you'd like to talk about it some time, you can come by," Allison offers. "Right, Dad?" He nods again.

Stiles shifts on the bed. This is an awkward situation. "Thanks, but … well, Dr. Deaton said he'd tell me about stuff."

"And that's good," Mr. Argent says, "but we might be able to offer a different perspective."

Stiles bites on his lower lip. "I'll think about it," he ends up telling them.

Allison smiles. "Good." She pats his arm again, and they part with a sincere goodbye, leaving Stiles with even more to think about and deal with, but not necessarily in a bad way.

Later that night, long after visitor hours are over, Stiles wakes up with a start. He's not even sure why; the room is dark, save for the little light above the machines for the nurses to come in and take a look when they need.

Stiles doesn't feel scared, though, once awake. There's the familiar smell of the woods filling the room, with the faintest hint of a particular soap.

"Derek," he says.

"Hi, Stiles."

Stiles looks over and sees Derek sitting on the small chair in the corner of the room. "Hi. You're here."

"I'm here," Derek says with a nod. He gives a little half smile. "Need your guard dog, don't you?"

It's like cold water is splashed all over Stiles. He shakes his head. "Don't. Don't say that, that's --" That's what Bob would say, and Stiles doesn't want to hear that shit. He tries to wave his hand in Derek's direction. "Take it back."

Derek is on his feet and at Stiles' bedside in a second flat. "Okay, I take it back." He grabs Stiles' flailing hand and gives it one quick squeeze before tucking it back at Stiles' side. "You need to rest. That's an order."

"Of course it is," Stiles says, but for once he doesn't protest.

**

For all the sleep that Stiles got while admitted at the hospital, he barely gets any once he's home.

No longer on pain meds to get him through dreamless nights … the nightmares won't leave him alone.

He's finally gotten to sleep late, late one night when it feels like he's woken up just moments later. He starts with a gasp and he's warm and sweating; he remembers there being fire and burning and screaming, but it's just a big mess of colour and sound. He doesn't remember anything specific other than feeling afraid. He's gulping down air when he glances up and sees Derek climbing in through his window.

"Are you okay?" Derek asks immediately.

"Hi, yeah. I'm -- just a dream," Stiles says, running a hand over his short hair. He tries to push the fading images away even faster and focus on the fact that Derek is here now. Stiles hasn't seen him since he was in the hospital, and that was a few days ago. "Have you been lurking around all night?"

"Just got here," Derek says, which doesn't actually answer if he just got to the house or just into Stiles' bedroom.

"Okay," Stiles says. He sits up and leans against the headboard of his bed, pushing the blankets off his body. He's too hot, it feels like a furnace in his room, and his sleep clothes are sticking to him. If Derek wasn't there, he'd probably rip off his shirt and pants, but that might be more than a little awkward right now. "You can sit or whatever, if you want."

"You should get some sleep," Derek says, staying right where he is, hovering beside Stiles' bed.

"How come any time we talk anymore it's about sleep?" Stiles says.

Derek shrugs. "You look tired."

"Is that your way of saying I look like crap?" Stiles asks. Derek snorts but doesn't say anything. Stiles grins and runs a hand over his hair but says more softly, "So, you've been … not here."

"I've been around," Derek says. "Just busy."

"In Phoenix?" Stiles asks.

Derek looks at him sharply but shakes his head. "No."

"Good," Stiles says, not surprised with how relieved he feels to know that Derek wasn't anywhere near that place. "All right, so I take it you've been trying to avoid me, then?"

Derek sighs. "No, not … not exactly. You're dealing with a lot. I thought maybe you needed time to get better before I …" He trails off with a frown.

"Oh yeah, because wondering where we stand is really relieving my stress," Stiles replies sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Look, can we just get this over with?"

"Get what over with?"

Stiles huffs and barely refrains from rolling his eyes again. "The part where you say that the demon -- Bob, by the way, his name is Bob --"

"Bob?"

"Yeah, not exactly demonish, right? But, anyway -- this is where you're supposed to say that the awful things Bob said was to mess with our heads, that he's just a soulless, evil bastard and he spun it to hurt everyone."

"He did."

"I know," Stiles says, "but I also know what he said was the truth. Just, like, mean truth because that's how he operates. It's okay, though, I'm not -- we're okay, it's fine. And I'll back off, all right?"

Derek sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He shrugs off his jacket and toes off his shoes. Much to Stiles' surprise, Derek climbs onto the bed and sits in front of Stiles, his legs crossed and elbows resting on his knees. He clasps his hands together. He finally says, "It wasn't the truth."

"Yeah it was," Stiles says. He shifts so that he's mirroring Derek's position, and they're sitting only inches apart. "I know it was. He picked it right out of my brain to twist it around."

"Well then your brain doesn't know the truth."

Maybe it was cruel, but Bob showed Stiles how pathetic he's being about it -- completely reminiscent of his crush on Lydia, and how did he fall into that trap again? -- and he's vowed to himself he's not going to be That Guy anymore.

"You keep saying no," Stiles points out. He isn't mad or frustrated, though, not any more. It's a fact, and he can be a man and deal with it. Just another thing on the long list of things he has to deal with. "That has nothing to do with Bob. That was you."

"I know," Derek admits, looking down at his hands as he idly picks at a fingernail, "but not … not because of why you think."

"What do you think I think?"

"That I don't want you," Derek says.

"Well, duh," Stiles says, "you don't. You've made that clear."

"I have not," Derek says, clearly taking his turn at being the frustrated one. "I've said we can't, not that I didn't want -- I was going to tell you. That day, when I came by."

"When I was … you know."

"Possessed," Derek says, not sugarcoating it. Because, yeah, that's what happened to Stiles, as much as Stiles doesn't want to say it or talk about it or even _think_ it. Derek nods. "Yes, that day. I was already on my way when Scott texted me. I wanted to explain. But then you were -- well, he was --"

"Weird," Stiles says, nodding. "Yeah, I totally wouldn't have been like that if you'd shown up to talk about us. I would've been all, okay yeah, pants off now."

Derek snorts and there's a little bit of a smile there, but he drops it when he says, "I was still going to say that we shouldn't."

"You initiated the kiss that day," Stiles points out. "You never do, but you did that day, because...?" And, oh. Oh, of course. "Right, you thought something was up, you were just checking it out in a weird wolfy way, right?"

"No, it was you," Derek says. "I still thought it was you, and I kissed you because …" Derek trails off, frowning.

"Derek," Stiles says, nearly a whisper. He tries to bring up the feeling that he had when Derek kissed Bob -- no, _him_ , Stiles -- but Bob mangled those memories and feelings, and Stiles is having a hard time bringing up anything good from that experience. "Come on, man, you gotta use your words here. Stop leaving me in the dark about this."

"Because I wanted to," Derek says, as if admitting it was being dragged out of him. "Even though I knew we shouldn't, you were sick and acting weird and I still wanted you."

Stiles' breath catches in his throat and he nods because this is a very rare occasion that he doesn't trust his own voice. He gestures at Derek, trying to get him to talk more. The ball is in his court and it needs to stay there until he finally finishes explaining.

"That's how I knew it wasn't _you_ ," Derek offers. "He didn't taste right."

"I don't know if I should be flattered or grossed out right now," Stiles manages to say, huffing a laugh. "I'll go with flattered."

"Good," Derek says. He pauses for a moment. "And then you smelled like … _you_. Through the sickness. And that's how I knew the other smell wasn't you, but you were still in there."

"I'm surprised you didn't flip out on him right then and there."

Derek shrugs. "I didn't know exactly what was going on, but I didn't want you hurt or lost or whatever."

"So you went to talk to Deaton and made a plan -- a brilliant and very, very crazy plan, I might add -- but one that worked."

"Yeah."

Stiles thinks back on it, back on that kiss, trying to pinpoint when maybe Derek realised. He remembers thinking about Derek, thinking about how much he wanted him to _know_ , how much Stiles wants Derek, how hard he tried to get that thought through to Derek.

Derek makes a noise in the back of his throat. When Stiles looks at him, he sees Derek has his eyes closed and is taking deep, even breaths.

Stiles asks softly, "Do I smell like it right now?"

"Yeah," Derek breaths out. "But it's stronger. It's like it always is."

Stiles rocks forward onto his knees, and braces his hands on Derek's thighs. Derek doesn't stop him, just looks up at him expectantly. He even tilts his head for when Stiles leans in to place a quick kiss to his lips, soft but not shy.

"Are you going to say no anymore?" Stiles asks. He thinks he already knows the answer, but he's not going to let Derek get away with anything unsaid anymore.

Derek shakes his head. "No. No more nos."

"Are you going to explain what the hell the problem was before? Because you still haven't actually said that part."

Derek sighs. His hands skirt up Stiles' thighs, mindful of his stitches, and settle on his hips. "I'm the Alpha."

"Um, right," Stiles says. "Have been for a couple years, man."

Derek nods. "And I didn't want -- I didn't want that being used against us."

Stiles barks out a hollow laugh as he sits down on his haunches, keeping his hands on Derek's knees. "Dude, in case you didn't notice, that doesn't seem to matter. You, Scott, the pack, _Dr. Deaton_ , for Christ's sake. I'm the vulnerable human here. It's gonna happen."

"I know," Derek says, frowning. "I was trying to help stop that from happening. I don't like it."

"Me neither," Stiles says truthfully. "And I'm sick of it. So, this whole possession thing has had me thinking, and I'm going to be doing some stuff to, like, help prepare me for that kind of thing."

Derek's eyebrows rise. "Like what?"

"Well, not distancing myself, if that's what you're thinking -- which, yeah, apparently that's what you were trying to do," Stiles says, fingers digging a tighter grip on Derek's legs, not willing to let him go. "I thought -- before, with the whole kanima business? I thought I wouldn't be able to do it, you know? Not be a part of that kind of life. But those thoughts lasted all of thirty minutes because I couldn't turn my back on Scott, and I never will. And then I let myself get stupidly attached to your pretty face," Stiles says with a gesture at Derek and at least Derek smiles a little, "so it seems this is my life, and I'm okay with that now. I just need to be better at it. I've asked Dr. Deaton to teach me more. Like, actually _teach_ me, enough of this cryptic need-to-know basis crap."

"Good idea," Derek says.

Stiles hesitates for a second before quickly blurting out the next part of his plan. "And I'm going to talk to the Argents about hunter stuff, no wait don't give me that look," Stiles says when Derek scowls. "Not to actually become a hunter -- dude, I'm still team werewolf here, in case I haven't been totally clear on that -- but more the, like, training part?"

"Being trained how to kill supernatural stuff," Derek says flatly.

"Being trained on how to protect myself better against supernatural stuff," Stiles clarifies. "And protect the people I care about better too."

Derek's quiet for a moment, but then finally says, "Well, at least you can ask Scott for advice on the whole werewolf-hunter relationship thing."

Stiles laughs, real and genuine. "Yeah, and then do the exact opposite of what he does. In case you haven't noticed, they make a mess of it."

"I can't promise we won't either," Derek says.

"But we're going to try, though, right?" Stiles says hopefully.

"Yeah," Derek says, tugging lightly at Stiles' hips. Stiles goes with it until he's straddling Derek's lap, wincing a little bit when the stitches in his leg pull. Derek's watching carefully, is surprisingly gentle as Stiles settles. He repeats, "Yeah, we are."

"Okay, good. Enough talking, let's get to the kissing and pants off part," Stiles says. Derek looks like he's about to protest for a moment -- god, _why_ \-- so Stiles shuts him up by leaning down and kissing him again. It's more forceful this time, and Derek tilts his head back and opens his mouth, letting Stiles set the pace. It's freaking awesome.

They kiss and kiss until Stiles pulls away with a final suck on Derek's lower lip. He laughs breathlessly, feeling happy and giddy, like the past few days are something that never existed. Derek smiles, his arms going around Stiles' waist to pull him even closer, and he drops his forehead to Stiles' chest.

Stiles can't help it, he hisses at the contact, and Derek pulls away immediately, nearly trying to push Stiles off his lap. "Oh, no, no you don't," Stiles says, cupping the back of Derek's neck, "I am fine, we are _not_ stopping, oh my god."

"Let me see it," Derek says. "You haven't shown me yet."

"If you wanted my shirt off all you had to do was ask," Stiles says with a grin, and tugs his blue shirt off over his head, tossing it to the side.

Derek leans back and looks at the fresh tattoo that's right in the middle of Stiles' chest. He raises a hand, but doesn't touch; it hovers over the healing skin, which is still red and sore. It's a sun with solid rays and a star in the middle. 

Derek asks, "This'll protect you from possession?"

"Yep, that's what Deaton says, amongst other things," Stiles says, looking down at it. "Plus, it's kind of badass, huh?"

"I like it," Derek says.

"Me too," Stiles says. He keeps the fact that it makes him feel safer, more secure, to himself. But he thinks Derek picks up on that anyway.

"Are you okay, Stiles?" he asks seriously.

That's a loaded question. He doesn't know how to answer that without freaking out, getting lost and possibly scaring Derek away. So he decides to focus on what he's positive will be the end result. "I will be, absolutely. I might just need some time, you know?"

Derek looks him straight in the eyes. "I get that."

Yeah. Yeah, if anyone gets that, it's Derek.

"You should show me your tattoo now," Stiles says, wanting a distraction. Wanting to move on to good things. Derek's bare skin is definitely a good thing.

"You've seen it."

"Yeah, that's totally code for, 'Derek, for the love of god, take off your shirt'."

Derek laughs, but in one quick movement, he's tugged his shirt off and tossing it to join Stiles'. Stiles immediately runs his hands over Derek's chest greedily.

"I thought you wanted to see my tattoo?"

"Meh," Stiles says lazily. "I've seen it."

Derek grins, but starts pushing on Stiles' hips. He seems to be getting with the program that serious talking time is done for now. "Come on, lie down."

"If you even dare tell me to go to sleep," Stiles grumbles, but shifts off of Derek. He winces again as he lies down; the kneeling and straddling didn't help the stitches at all, and they've started throbbing in pain.

"I thought it was pants off time," Derek says, starting to tug at Stiles' plaid sleep pants.

"Heck yeah it is," Stiles says, wiggling them down as Derek pulls them over his feet. He's still in his boxers, though. Stiles gestures at Derek's jeans. "You too, man, this is an equal opportunity relationship here."

Derek rolls his eyes, but he pushes his jeans down and kicks them off the end of the bed. Next Stiles knows, Derek is kneeling next to him on the bed, wearing nothing but his black boxer-briefs.

"Oh my god," Stiles says, eyeing Derek hungrily.

Derek quirks a small grin, but then he's reaching down and gently placing his hand over Stiles' stitches.

"Oh, hey, don't look at that, they're ugly -- _oh_ ," Stiles says when it feels like there's been morphine poured over the wound or something, because suddenly there's no pain. He watches as the veins of Derek's hand go black. Derek grits his teeth for a second, but then the black ripples up his arm and quickly disappears, and Derek relaxes again.

"Thanks," Stiles says, sinking down onto the bed. It doesn't hurt anymore.

"You still have to be careful though," Derek says. "It hasn't healed it, just stopped it from hurting for a little while." He waits until Stiles nods in acknowledgement, then he nudges at Stiles' hip. "Hey, over onto your side."

"This feels like a sleeping position," Stiles grumbles as he complies. Derek moves to fit in behind him, wiggling an arm under Stiles' head. "Not a sexy times position."

"You sure?" Derek says, his other hand moving over Stiles' hip and down to palm his dick.

"I stand corrected," Stiles says with a gasp. He leans back into Derek's chest, angling his head for a kiss. Derek leans in and gives him one, kissing him slowly and deep, while at the same time getting his hand into Stiles' boxers and starting to stroke him. Stiles whimpers and tries to buck his hips, trying to get more and get it faster.

"Hey," Derek says against his lips. "Quit squirming, you'll hurt yourself."

"Will not," Stiles mumbles, lips sliding to kiss sloppily at Derek's jaw. "Come on, faster.."

Stiles can feel a rumble against his back, but Derek's hand stills completely, which is the exact opposite of what he wants. Derek bends up his arm that's under Stiles, and his forearm braces across Stiles' collarbones. It's like a solid grip holding Stiles' torso to Derek's chest, and he doesn't rub on the sore tattoo either. 

He then carefully drapes his leg over Stiles', lower down, somehow locking them together at the ankles. It's like an anchor holding Stiles down, grounding him.

"God, that's hot," Stiles murmurs when Derek starts jacking him off again. He's still able to jerk his hips but, no, he's held pretty firmly in place with no risk of hurting himself. One of his hands grips Derek's forearm while he blindly throws his other arm behind him, landing to grab a nice handful of firm ass and _fuck_ that's awesome.

It's too awkward to keep their mouths together for long; Stiles tilts his head so that Derek can suck and kiss at his neck. They rock together, finding a good rhythm, and Stiles can feel Derek get harder as he ruts against Stiles' ass while he jerks him off. Sweat breaks out all over Stiles' body again, but it's completely different this time. It makes Derek growl and suck even harder on his neck, and Stiles gasps and moans in response. 

It doesn't take all that long before Stiles is trembling all over, the warm, electric feeling pooling in his belly. His balls draw up before his body goes taut and then he's coming in Derek's hand, gasping, biting his lower lip and trying to keep from being too loud. Derek murmurs in Stiles' ear and strokes him through it until Stiles feels too sensitive and pushes at Derek's hand. 

Derek wipes it on Stiles' boxers.

"Jerk," Stiles says without any heat to it at all because, holy crap, he feels all warm and glowy and amazing right now.

"Good?" Derek asks lowly, placing a kiss right behind Stiles' ear.

"So good. Better than good. It was, like, all the really good things of the world wrapped into one handjob." And, god, Derek just gave Stiles a handjob and he is never, ever going to forget it.

"Good," Derek replies, mouthing at Stiles' shoulder and pushing closer. Stiles can feel Derek reach down between them and start rubbing--

"Oh, god," Stiles says, flailing a bit and almost clocking Derek in the face with his elbow. Derek's starting to jerk himself off. He can't do that -- Stiles wants to!

"Stiles," Derek says crossly, pulling away and dropping his back onto the mattress. "Could you wait before you cause me bodily harm? Kinda busy here."

"I know, I know, I want --" Stiles squirms around on the bed again, turning on his side to face Derek, careful of the stitches on his leg but absolutely not giving up the chance to look at Derek right now.

Which is a damn good thing, because Stiles gets to see Derek sprawled out on his bed and palming his dick through his black boxer-briefs.

"Spank-bank forever," Stiles breaths out. Derek rolls his eyes but smiles, and lets Stiles push his hand away. Stiles says, "I'm gonna. I want to. Can I?"

"You don't -- if it's going to hurt --"

"It will hurt me to the depths of my _soul_ not to," Stiles says seriously. He rearranges himself so that his head is resting on Derek's chest and Stiles is looking down his torso at the obvious hard-on that's still trapped in his boxer-briefs. Stiles says, "I'm so gonna blow you someday."

Derek groans. "Stiles."

"Will mutual handjobs do for now?" Stiles asks, but he doesn't wait for an answer before he's reaching down and pushing the material out of the way.

Lying like this, Stiles can only really use one of his hands, what with one arm trapped under his own body, so he alternates stroking Derek's dick and rolling his balls in his palm. Derek's patient and lets him do that, but Stiles likes it best once he's really worked up, breath becoming more laboured, and he starts to get wordlessly impatient with little huffs and groans while his fingers rub rhythmically over Stiles back, matching the pace Stiles sets. Derek's leaking and Stiles spreads it around, the slick-slide making it all that easier. Stiles stays pillowed on Derek's chest, watching as the head of Derek's cock moves in and out of the tunnel of his fist.

Stiles likes it like this because, for once, he's able to hear Derek's heartbeat and he doesn't need any special senses to do it. He can hear it speed up and start pounding against his rib cage. And he can hear the hitches of breath in his lungs, and feel the low groans and moans vibrating through him. When Derek's close, Stiles turns his face into Derek's warm skin, sucking a hickey right below his nipple. He looks back just in time to see Derek start to come in his hand. Stiles watches avidly, can't imagine anything else looking so hot, and strokes him through it.

He wipes his hand on Derek's boxer-briefs and turns up to give him a smug smile.

Derek's looking pretty blissed out ... for Derek, anyway. His eyes are hazy and soft around the corners, and there's a smile tugging on one side of his mouth.

"You need orgasms more often," Stiles says. "I do too. More mutual orgasms for us, got it?"

"Agreed," Derek says, and gently tugs Stiles up so he can give him a kiss. It's light and brief, but better than any of their other kisses before. Stiles lets himself be carefully manhandled back onto the bed, and Derek grabs the tissues off the headboard to clean them both up. When done, he spoons up behind Stiles again.

"Sleep," Derek says.

Stiles sighs, but to be honest, he's pretty tired and drifting away on the most pleasant feelings he's felt in days. Ever, maybe. He says goodnight and is almost asleep when he startles awake and grips Derek's hand. "Don't go, okay?" Stiles says, suddenly worried he'll wake up from night terrors and be all alone again.

"I'll be here," Derek says, tugging Stiles even closer, enveloping him in the smell of woods and sex. It lulls Stiles and he feels safe. Anchored.

He falls into a deep sleep, and only once does he begin to rouse from it, fear making his heart go faster and start to wake him up. But then strong arms squeeze him tight, and lips press against the back of his neck, and calm murmurs gently urge him back to sleep. He goes.

When Stiles wakes up in the morning, he feels more rested than he has in days.

And Derek's still there.

Stiles smiles. He's gonna be okay. 

They both will.

~ end

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to jadedginger for creating a graphic set for this fic! Check it out [on tumblr](http://jadedginger.tumblr.com/post/39799468072/this-graphic-set-is-inspired-by).


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